Stripped Bare
by keru.m
Summary: Mac's thoughts after her encounter with Sadiq in Persian Gulf. With a dash of shippery wholesomeness.


Disclaimer: Don't own'em.

A/N: Really quick piece when I don't really have the luxury of time. I found this episode intriguing, and wondered at Mac's thoughts. Then the shipper reflex took over, so it ends all shippery fanciful.

--

I died for beauty but was scarce  
Adjusted in the tomb,  
When one who died for truth, was lain  
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?  
"For beauty," I replied.  
"And I for truth, -- the two are one;  
We brethren, are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,  
We talked between the rooms,  
Until the moss had reached our lips,  
And covered up our names.

- Emily Dickinson

--

**Stripped Bare **

Mac entered her apartment and slipped off her shoes. She'd done the same thing but a few hours ago, in front of Sadiq. She shook her head to dispel the image, but only ended up having to shut her eyes at the sudden dull throbbing in her temples. Odd. She didn't think he'd hit her head. Usually, she could remember her hand-to-hand combats with sharp clarity, and would review them to see where she'd gone wrong, where she could have done better. Not so this time. All she could remember was fury and rage and a dark, viscous craving for revenge that blocked her vision and muzzled her reason. She had been reckless. Not something she was used to being. In fact, something she made a point of not being. She'd exhausted her credit on that front during her

teenage years. The Marines was the closest she could come to channelling her … 'adventurous spirit' in a somewhat structured environment.

She decided she'd make a horrible CIA agent.

Mac made her way to the nearest window without bothering to take off her coat, and rested her forehead against the cool pane. She sighed. She should get an ice pack for her lip. And try and find the bruises she'd earned … maybe take a hot bath.

Except she was feeling restless. Her skin felt too tight. The fury and the rage and that primordial need simmering thick and heavy she'd been suppressing since Paraguay were still all there, angrily churning, demanding to be unleashed. She wished Clay were here. No. Actually, it was a good thing he wasn't here. She wondered if his absence was one of those rare, hidden graces the world offered to make sure she didn't self-destruct beyond repair. Because right about now, there was no word for how far beyond reckless she felt. She needed to de-stress, to silence the demons, and if Clay were here she knew exactly what she'd ask, demand, of him. And he would probably understand and he would probably give it to her, however she wanted it. The thought was so appealing Mac had to put a hand up against the window to steady herself. The cool glass under her palm somewhat calmed her.

Thank god he wasn't here. She didn't think she was ready for that kind of relationship with Clay. With him gone, she didn't have to fight it. He was ready, she knew, and was giving her time. She was grateful for it. She remembered those ten months she wore a ring on her right hand. It seemed that she'd been pulled into relationships kicking and screaming ever since Dalton. Why the hell was that? No. Don't answer. She already knew the answer, and she didn't like it.

Clay, though. She did enjoy her time with him. He was intelligent, sweet yet cynical, hesitatingly kind – she could admit this was what she found most appealing about him, the way he marvelled at kind acts, the way they made him so uncomfortable, yet he did them anyways. There was a hard edge to him, no doubt, one that attested to the scars left by his line of work, his father's death, his mother's … mothering. She found him entrancing, in a way. He was such an enigma. He was a very good friend, one who understood her right now like no else could. The shared experience in Paraguay had changed him, her, them both. And they were so suited for each other, both hardened by life, both flawed. So flawed she could see the cracks. But that didn't mean she 

was ready for _that_ kind of relationship with him. Once they slept together, she'd only have to worry more about his prolonged absences and the secrecy. Intimacy, she thought, would be difficult given his line of work, and she wasn't sure she was able to handle all that having a full-fledged relationship with him would entail right now.

His line of work was another thing that she couldn't make up her mind about. In the end, he was serving his country, just as she was. But while the military was built around celebrating honour and bravery and heroism, around instilling the kind of fraternity where no one was left behind, the CIA was an altogether different creature. There was no pomp and ceremony. A star on a wall, instead of a name. She thought of Harm's DFCs and commendations, of her own medals … Paraguay had gotten them a pat on the back and silence. The three of them had yet to recover from the fallout. And tonight. Tonight. Tonight she was debriefed and sent home. To a dark empty apartment. No note in her records, no ribbons, no congratulatory kiss, no shining pride cleaned bare of the blood and guts of battle. Intellectually, she knew neither of them did much of anything for the reward, but no one could deny that glint in Harm's eye when a medal was pinned to his chest. He was making his family proud, his father proud, his country proud. She'd had something to give to Lilyana, to explain courage, valour. Harm's father was honoured, a hero. Clay's father was as much a shadow as his son. It seemed to her that bravery stripped of ceremony was only … hell, she didn't know what to call it. She couldn't recognize it. Not tonight, and not after Paraguay, when the sacrifices were so large and there was nothing to hold on to. It was not a familiar thing. She didn't know what it was.

She shook her head against the window pane. The world was a strange, strange place.

She should draw a bath and start stripping her clothes so she could see what visible damage the bastard had done to her. She moved away from the window and made her way to the freezer for an ice pack. The pain, throbbing to varying degrees over her body, made her movements slow, but she revelled in it. She'd wear the bruises and stiffness and soreness like a badge of honour. It was all she had to remember the experience by anyways. That and the fury and rage she could barely tame. Maybe she should hit the gym, let out some of that aggression. Yes. That's what she'd do. Wash her face, clean up, take a couple painkillers and beat the shit out of a punching bag. It might even loosen her up a bit, melt away the stiffness. She changed course and headed for her room, ignoring the fact that lifting her arms was a chore.

Mac was about to enter her bedroom when she heard a knock on her door. She froze, tensed her muscles and felt them respond with a tight echo of pain. She forced herself to relax. Nothing to worry about. It was probably Clay. She hesitated, her eyes fixed on the door. She knew exactly what she needed from him tonight, but … To hell with it. Mac marched to the front door. She needed something so damn badly right now, and he'd give it to her, no questions asked.

She opened the door and was stopped short by the sight of Harm. Why on earth was he here?

"Are you alright? What happened?" She asked, searching him for any signs of injury. He seemed okay.

"I'm fine." He answered absently as he looked her once over, his eyes trailing from her swelling lip down to her bare feet, and then back to her face. "You don't look so good."

She didn't know how to answer that.

"Did you just get back?" He asked, entering her apartment. She noted that he was walking much more steadily, and he was speaking normally. Thank god. She couldn't handle him having to go through any more crap because of her. Enough was enough.

She shut the door and leaned back against it, watching him remove his coat. She had told him earlier that night that he would be a liability. Only after she'd said the words had she wondered at how much meaning exactly they'd carried. It had been a cutting thought, but she'd forced herself to forget about it then so she could focus on hunting down the bastard who'd hurt so many and was planning on hurting so many more. Now, as she remembered, she looked down at the floor, and settled herself into that familiar now comfortable salve of regret.

"Mac?" His gentle voice woke her from her thoughts. She looked at him.

"Did you drive yourself?" She asked. She studied his face carefully, finding another kind of comfort altogether in its familiarity. 

"Took a cab." He replied, studying her face as closely as she was his.

She'd been ready for some very demanding, very passionate, uncontrolled sex with Clay just to remind herself she was alive, just to forget that she wasn't really. Seeing Harm, though … she just wanted a hug. She was appalled to feel tears sting at her eyes. She resolutely blinked them back and headed to the kitchen, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"I'll make us some tea," She mumbled as she walked by him.

He caught her arm to halt her, and she felt his fingers dig slightly, but for a moment, into a bruise. She welcomed the pain, was surprised that she didn't even flinch.

"Let me, Mac. Why don't you change and then put some ice on that lip." 

The tenderness in his voice again had her blinking back tears. She changed course and headed to the bedroom without a word, knowing that she was barely holding it together as it was. She needed time and distance to regroup.

She shut her room door behind her and started removing her clothes, her movements slow. She sincerely did not remember Sadiq getting in that many blows. Suck it up, Marine. 

When she was down to her bra and panties, she stared at her reflection in the full length mirror. She had a few bruises. Her shoulder. Her hip. Just above her big toe on her right foot. Her arms were he had grabbed her. Her lip was swelling. Not that bad, all in all. Her muscles were a bit sore. Asshole couldn't even fight that well. Mac gaze fell on her eyes in the mirror. She wasn't sorry, she told the accusing stare that met her. She wasn't. Why the hell should she be? 

If he'd lived … if he'd lived, he probably wouldn't have said a thing under interrogation, or torture for that matter. He would've continued his stupid mind games, revelled in the power, the information he held. Psychopath. And it would've raised public attention, he'd have been a rallying cry for how many ever followers he had. Right now, he was relatively low level, not really in the public radar. She didn't doubt the CIA could deal with this quietly. She wasn't sorry. They had his body, they had the apartment he'd been staying in. They had the body of someone he'd killed … they had a lot to start an investigation with … Just try and convince yourself, her reflection told her. She looked away. 

She'd taken out a personal vendetta on a public enemy. Death was such an easy way out, he deserved so much worse. She wondered what his last thoughts were. Beaten by a woman, or on his way to 72 virgins? He was another enigma. In a way, she hoped he thought he was on his way to eternal bliss as a martyr, it would be one hell of a rude awakening to find himself in pits of fire, paying for all the deaths he was responsible for. Then again, she'd taken lives, too. They all had blood on their hands ... Mac hung her head, the thoughts swirling in her mind suddenly too heavy. Good and evil were just as damn messy as human beings and the world they lived in.

"Mac? You were taking so long, I …"

She slowly looked up and turned her head to see Harm standing in her doorway. His eyes searched hers for something. She held his gaze, drawing strength from his presence.

The world was a strange, strange place.

He entered her room, set the cup of tea on her bedside table and walked up to her. He placed one hand on her waist, and with the other carefully pressed the ice pack to her lip. The calming warmth of his hand and sharp cold of the ice pack were an odd contrast. She closed her eyes and stood absolutely still, trying to process his proximity – she couldn't remember the last time he'd touched her – when he did the most surprising, most wonderful thing by bringing his forehead to rest against hers. She was caught off guard, too overwhelmed by the gesture to blink back her tears. They fell in silence from closed eyelids, trailing down in her cheeks. She could do nothing but savour the moment. She brought her hands to rest on the front of his shoulders, and his arm tightened around her waist. She couldn't help her sob, or the shake of her shoulders. The ice pack fell to the ground, he wrapped his other arm around her, his hand cold from the ice, and held her 

tight. She stepped into him until she could feel nothing but him around her, no fury, no rage, nothing at all but him.

He whispered words of comfort into her ear, and she could only think that she'd never done anything to deserve him in her life.

"Thank you," She mumbled into his chest once she was able to stem the flow of tears. "I needed this."

He loosened his hold, and looked down at her. "Stress has to relieve itself somehow." He smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with affection as he wiped away her tears with the pads of his fingers.

He was the answer to her earlier question. He always would be the answer, she realized. She dropped her head then, a sudden sadness overwhelming her. He didn't want to be the answer, though, she reminded herself. She sighed, and knew she should step out of his embrace, put on some clothes…

She remembered with a start that she was only wearing her underwear. Her eyes darted to his. It occurred to her that he hadn't looked away from her face since he'd entered the bedroom. The realization had her smiling warmly, ruefully.

"You're a good man, Harmon Rabb." She rubbed her palm over his chest, unable to hold on to her sadness with a firm hand when she was so close to him.

Something in his eyes changed at her words, a reflective seriousness, regret, suddenly took shape. He looked away, and after a moment his expression turned thoughtful. She frowned, following his gaze. He was studying their reflection in her full length mirror. It was … an interesting sight: he fully clothed, she in her underwear, his arms holding her with such care, both looking so comfortable, so at ease with the other.

She admired his profile, until she came to his face. He was no longer looking in their reflection in the mirror, but at her. And the way he was looking at her … 

"Harm." She could only whisper in wonder. She turned to look at him, and got caught in his gaze.

"Mac." His tone was as quiet, solemn. "This isn't the right time, I know. But this can't wait … I can't, I mean, when the time is right…" He trailed off, his eyes fixed on hers, his struggle visible. She felt his hand absently caress her waist, and the comfort in his touch again caught her off guard.

He glanced down at the floor, and then a slow, hesitant grin spread across his face. "The only thing you don't have is comfortable shoes."

She looked at him in confusion – comfortable shoes? – until she remembered that she'd called him a good man. 

"The only thing?" She had no tears left tonight.

"The only thing." He repeated, lowering his head to touch his lips to the side of her mouth that wasn't swelling. She closed her eyes and committed this moment to memory, overtaken by the onslaught of emotions he brought out in her. She had her answer.

He held her in his embrace, tightly, completely. She wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her nose in his chest, breathing him in, ignoring all the aches, and didn't think she'd ever be able to let go. This was what she needed. This was all she'd ever needed. This.

"Sarah." He murmured into her hair, and in that one word, all the ugliness Sadiq was able to infuse when he called her by her name, the sharp edges and the censure, all fell away. She tightened her hold on him. How she needed to hear that.

"Harm." She whispered.

The moment was shattered by the shrill ringing of her phone.

Clay.

She pulled back and looked Harm in the eye.

"That's Clay."

He tensed, but to her surprise, didn't pull away from her.

"You and he…" He trailed off guiltily, miserably, and looked away. She could see traces of resentment in his eyes, anger in the tight set of his jaw. But his touch remained gentle, therapeutic.

She shook her head, distantly noting that her headache had dimmed, and then frowned. She was willing, she thought, to accept Clay for all his faults. She needed to learn to do the same with Harm. As much as he tried to act otherwise, he also lived in this messy world. It seemed Paraguay was the point of singularity where everything else was stripped away, and all that was left were three people bound by their flaws. Harm was as emotionally insecure as she was. He was demanding yet distant, he jumped to conclusions, he often didn't think before he spoke, he could be as selfish as he was selfless. He was human. 

It was time she started answering his questions, even if she felt cheapened by the implications behind them. Then again, she hadn't given him much reason to ask other questions, or to stop asking altogether.

"No." She stated emphatically. "I don't want that from him. I don't know if I ever could bring myself to. But I do value his friendship. He …" She struggled to explain. She'd been struggling with the same thought earlier, she didn't know how to put it into words.

He nodded slowly, carefully. He seemed to understand, even though she had trouble formulating it, even though he didn't seem to like it. They'd have to work on that.

"Come on." He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I'll get another ice pack and make a fresh pot of tea." He hesitated, then placed a kiss on her forehead. "You, uh, can call Webb."

She looked at him in wonder. He was full of surprises this evening.

"Harm." She waited until his eyes met hers. "I'll talk to him tomorrow." She couldn't call him anyways, didn't have his number, didn't know where he was. She sighed. "I just want to take the phone off the hook and not have to deal with anything tonight." She knew it was selfish, but she just wanted to spend time with Harm. Feel his presence, and nothing else.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked carefully. She knew that look. He'd make sure she did talk about it, whether she wanted to or not. Might as well throw in the towel gracefully.

"No. But I probably should." She felt oddly naked at admitting that to him. Then again, she was actually naked, too, and that hadn't made for much awkwardness so far.

He smiled, that smile full of affection and admiration she'd rarely seen directed at her. She cleared her throat and looked away, unaccustomed to having him look at her so openly. It probably didn't help that she was mostly naked … Why was her near-nakedness suddenly bothering her so much? No, stupid question. The real question was: why hadn't her nakedness been bothering her that much until a moment ago?

"I'll change." She took a step back, feeling self-conscious and vulnerable.

"If you must." He teased, his irresistible grin in place.

She turned her automatic glare on in warning.

His grin only widened, which made her laugh even as she tried to hide the disconcerting blush that crept up under his open gaze. In a spontaneous move, she took a step towards him and stood up on her toes to place a tender, lingering kiss on his lips. She thought, in that one reckless yet perfect moment when her lips touched his, that maybe Harm offered another way for her to channel her adventurous spirit. The thought made her smile, and she thanked whatever powers were out there for offering her this rare, hidden grace. This chance to help Harm and her both heal.

--  
End


End file.
